


heathen

by elena_stidham



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Forgiveness, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, honestly my inspiration for Yut-Lung in this fic was Azula from ATLA so there's the vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 13:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elena_stidham/pseuds/elena_stidham
Summary: The only cure for a headache seems to be broken glass and champagne.





	heathen

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS FOR: Language, inanimate object violence
> 
> SONGS USED TO GET IN THE MOOD: Nothing this time
> 
> I wrote this as part of the Banana Fish Gift Exchange for @katsudono_ on twitter! I really hope you like it! I have only written Yut-Lung once, so it’s nice to finally flesh him out a little more. I may or may not have taken inspiration from Azula from ATLA for him because watching the show he reminded me SO MUCH of her?? Idk. 
> 
> Anyways. This was really fun to write and an awesome challenge! I really hope you end up liking the finish product!! 
> 
> My twitter and tumblr is elenastidham. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -Elena

It started with a headache.

A couple of ibuprofen didn’t really seem to do it, and neither did a cup of scalding tea, but alcohol brought numbness. It brought an odd comfort that dulled away at his senses enough for him to remember and to forget. What day was it today? September 19th. Why does this feel significant in a way?

The only thing he can think of is how it’s been a week since the world fell into silence. It’s been a week since Ash Lynx had up and abandoned New York, crawling out of the library to instead bleed at a hospital in Japan.

Eiji’s probably with him. He’s probably pacing over the near loss and doting over this surviving loved one as if a cradle had been found tipped over. He’s probably forgotten all about the world he lives in, now. Too focused on _Ash _and _Japan _and living their lives in a perfect fucking harmony _together. _

It’s right now when it seems Yut-Lung finds the source of his headache.

He remembered Sing screaming at him last week, calling him a _fucking animal_ in the most eloquent of terms. Lao’s death was entirely his fault. Ash’s near-death experience fell into that same umbrella. He hasn’t heard back from Sing since.

Yut-Lung reaches for the bottle of champagne and pours himself another glass. He’s grown bitter to the taste by now, but the numbness brought comfort. The comfort brought silence. The silence curbed away headaches.

“You know you shouldn’t be drinking so much. It could kill you.”

He turns towards the sound of the voice and meets a pair of eyes he hasn’t looked at since he was in the dark. It’s Ash. He’s just _standing _there, with his hands in his hoodie pockets and with his head cocked very slightly to the side. It’s like he’s studying him. It’s like he’s analysing. It’s like he’s rubbing it in.

Yut-Lung scoffs, then looks back to his champagne. There’s a grimace when he looks, now, glaring at the alcohol and bringing the brim up to his lips. “This doesn’t apply to you,” he mumbles.

“But it does.”

He doesn’t look back yet, his eyebrows furred together in a frustrated rage while trying to maintain a status of calm. “What do you want, Ash?”

“To tell you to go home.”

He looks over at him now, glaring in his eyes. For a split second his pupils almost narrow into slits. “Excuse me?”

“You’re done. It’s over,” Ash smiles at him. He’s calm. He’s careful. It’s like he’s reached nirvana and is trying to convey the message, but the message is ill received. That doesn’t stop him from trying. “You don’t have to fight anymore, you can go home.”

“I _am_ home.”

“Then your home certainly needs repairing.”

“What the fuck does it matter to you?” Yut-Lung snaps. “You got what you wanted. You’re living in a perfect happy ending. Leave me alone.”

Ash’s smile turns sad. It’s like he knows better. “You don’t want to be alone.”

He huffs. “Well, I’m in a world of monsters,” Yut-Lung mumbles and takes another drink. “I have to be.”

For a second of silence, Yut-Lung thought he had won their little argument. He genuinely believed that he was going to be gone, now, or that there wasn’t going to be anything else that he had to say. But of course, like always, he was wrong. But of course, Ash Lynx was always fucking infamous for having the last word.

“You don’t have to be a monster anymore.”

He grips tight at his champagne, before finally screaming and throwing the glass directly at Ash, only for it to shatter against frame, broken glass spiralling all across the floor and champagne flying on top the ceiling. The mirror is broken, now. And it’s within his reflection among the shattered glass he realises that Ash was never there.

This is his life now. This is what happens when he’s left alone to fall apart.

When Yut-Lung wakes up, he finds himself on the floor. He doesn’t remember how or when he passed out and why he decided it would be best to sleep amongst shattered glass, but he feels the punishment for it. He feels the pieces entangled in his hair, scraping his skin, spelling out his name in blood.

He coughs lightly as he gradually turns onto his back and squints at the light through the window frame. It’s too bright. It’s too late in the morning.

He has a headache.

Yut-Lung groans as he sits up, the tinkling of glass echoing across porcelain walls. He runs his fingers through his hair, watching the glass pour out of the black ocean and cutting at his fingers when it gets tangled up. He stares at the glass down on the ground. There’s something particular about his reflection.

“You’re up.”

His eyes follow the voice to the mirror, expecting to see Ash Lynx taunting him with kindness again, but he doesn’t receive that. He doesn’t see him at all. He turns around, using his palm pressed to the glass to pivot his body and he hardly manages a wince when glass shards begin to cut.

His eyes meet Sing, who’s sitting on his couch. He’s been waiting there for a long while.

“I thought you were through with me,” he scoffs. “I thought I was a _fucking animal,_” Yut-Lung emphasises with a glare.

“I’m going to punch you,” Sing comments. He notices the small traces of blood along the glass. “Having fun in there?”

“Very much so, yes.” His eyes strike and burn the same glare as the Lees he spent so much time destroying. The snakelike persona he tries so hard to convey is starting to have cracks starting through his vision.

Sing rolls his eyes and then sighs. He waits a moment, before his voice creeps into a moment of sincerity. “How’s your headache?”

“What makes you think I have a headache?”

Sing points to the champagne. Yut-Lung is quiet about it for a minute, before he just scoffs, turning his nose up to the sky. “Tolerable.”

He nods. “Tolerable,” he echoes. With a deep exhale he stands up, running his fingers through his hair and watches Yut-Lung for a second. He thinks maybe he doesn’t want reconciliation. Maybe he doesn’t want to be saved. “I guess I’ll leave, now.”

He begins to walk, but he feels an arm suddenly reach up and grab the bottom of his jacket with a desperate stride of hope. “Don’t, please.”

“If you’re not going to talk to me then I’m not going to stay here,” Sing glances down at him. He looks tired. Despite however many hours in the glass in which he slept he looks every ounce of exhausted as when he first came to Chinatown. He looks done. He looks like he wants life to be over.

Yut-Lung swallows hard, then he slowly lets go of Sing’s jacket. “It’s hard to talk to you when you hate me.”

Sing’s response is immediate. “I don’t hate you.”

There’s a breath of relief, then Sing slowly starts to realise. He’s heard about the great leader of Chinatown has being too inebriated this past week to think of _anything, _and he’s starting to feel the weight behind those words he screamed in fury. “I can’t bring myself _to _hate you.”

“You don’t hate me,” Yut-Lung breathes through this like he’s trying to convince himself of the new words.

“I don’t,” Sing confirms.

His hand slides down to his sides, now, pressing back into this glass, but this time making room. He watches and they wait, wondering where in the world they’re going now, wondering what the hell is happening next.

“Stay with me,” he pleads.

Sing pauses with this, and it’s then he finally takes the leap and reaches for the boy on the ground. He clears the glass before and sits his knees, carefully pulling Yut-Lungs head onto his lap. He begins to pick at the glass tangled in his hair. It’d be better if a brush did this.

“Stay,” Yut-Lung whispers. And Sing stays, their reflection intermingled along broken glass and shattered remnants of a mirror that reminded him that he doesn’t have to be a monster anymore. 

He doesn’t have a headache. At least, not anymore.


End file.
